


No Winter Lasts Forever

by Kogiopsis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, I am CONTRIBUTING TO THIS CELEBRATION FOR ONCE, and my polyamorous Inquisitor and friends, featuring cameos by the rest of the Origins crew, some discussion of Tranquility re: the mage origin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:37:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5874400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kogiopsis/pseuds/Kogiopsis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...no spring skips its turn."<br/>- Hal Borland</p><p>Two Wintersend celebrations, twelve years apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 9:31

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkandpaperhowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkandpaperhowl/gifts).



> Written for Ladyknightradiant/Inkandpaperhowl, who asked me for a 'Found Family' Christmas fic featuring my Warden and Leliana. It took longer than I intended, and went a bit beyond its original scope, but I hope you enjoy the result.
> 
> Thank you to Featherwriter for beta-reading, especially since I wrote this in an unusual burst of speed and dumped both chapters on her in the same day.

The last time Daine and her companions had seen the village of Redcliffe, rebuilding had barely begun.  The people had been grim-faced and solemn, with little to be grateful for than their own survival, and some of them not even that.  But that was months ago, when they brought Andraste’s ashes to Arl Eamon, and while they’ve been on the road to Denerim and deep beneath Orzammar, the town has mended its wounds.  Blanketed in a thick layer of snow, it looks almost normal, and certainly more peaceful than it was the first time they arrived.

“Good old Redcliffe,” Alistair says, stretching his arms over his head as they look down from the road above the mill.  “I’m glad to see it’s still standing.”

“After what we did to save them?  Squandering our gift would be most insulting.”  Zevran tugs on the straps of his pack, shifting it on his back.  “Are you sure we don’t have time for a drink at the tavern, Surana?”

Daine, who had been staring out over the village but not quite seeing it, shakes her head once to refocus herself and again to answer his question.  “We certainly don’t have time for you to seduce the waitress.  Let’s just gather our supplies and get back to camp.  The others are waiting.”

Alistair, Zevran, and Leliana all nod, and together they descend into the village itself.

It is chaos.  The crowd is not as bad as those in Denerim, where Daine had sometimes been tempted to mind-blast the people around her just to get some elbow room, but it’s certainly more than she’s used to after so long travelling in a small group.  The square in front of the Chantry is crowded with makeshift market stalls, and farmers from across the Hinterlands are hawking their preserved goods.  The Chantry is lit up like a lantern, casting glowing color out over the snowy streets even in full daylight.  At first, Daine assumes that the crowds are just refugees, but the mood of the town is too jovial for that.  She’s seen more than her fair share of panicked, exhausted people in their travels, and most of these aren’t.  Perhaps they’re the lucky ones, whom the Blight has yet to touch; the ones who can still live an ordinary life, for the moment.

“Excuse me,” Leliana calls, reaching out to tug on the sleeve of a passing man.  “Is this a festival?”

He turns towards her, raising an eyebrow.  “It’s Wintersend, girl!  Where have you been, to not know?”

From behind, Daine hears Zevran snort and mutter “Under a rock, actually,” to Alistair.  

Leliana, however, lights up at the man’s second word.“Wintersend!  How delightful!  Thank you, ser.”  She turns back to the others, eyes wide and bright.  “What luck!  I know we have little time, but please, for the festival?”  She looks straight at Daine when she says it, imploring.  “It will be so good to see these people celebrating, after all they’ve been through.”

Alistair joins in the staring next, and then Zevran, and Daine relents.

“I suppose we can afford one more night,” she says, and Zevran actually _whoops_ in delight.

* * *

They buy their supplies first, carrying them back up and into their temporary camp in the forest.  It’s tucked back, away from the road where the light of their fire is less visible.  Morrigan, Sten, and Wynne wait there, and Daine smiles to see that Sten is playing with Tahoi.  He straightens, giving her a deep respectful nod.

“Did you gather the needed supplies?” he asks, and she nods back, gesturing at the packages her other companions carry.  The festival had been a boon in one respect at least: with a supply of preserved vegetables and fruits, they wouldn’t have to choose between foraging under the snow and eating nothing but wild-caught meat.

“We’re making full camp tonight,” Daine says, crouching down next to the small fire they’ve built and warming her hands.  “Redcliffe is celebrating Wintersend.”

Sten snorts, looking pointedly around at the snow on the ground.  “Winter is nowhere near its end,” he grumbles.

“Be that as it may,” Alistair says, “ _I_   intend to enjoy myself for once.”

“It sounds lovely,” Wynne says, smiling.  From her smaller fire a distance away, Daine hears Morrigan scoff.

“If you all want to go join the party, go ahead,” Daine says to the four who’ve expressed interest.  “I’ve some things to take care of, but I’ll join you.”

Leliana smiles brightly at her, crouching down to kiss her cheek.  “Thank you, love,” she says.  The tone of her voice and the touch of her lips warm Daine’s face and coax a smile from her in return, and she nods.

“Go, scout it out,” she says.  “That way you can show me the best parts.”

The four set their burdens down and head back into the woods.  Daine watches them go, still smiling.  They’re a motley group – her whole band is, really.  An elven assassin, an Orlesian bard, a Fereldan bastard, and a mage who shares her body with a spirit.  At last Wintersend, she had been an apprentice still unHarrowed, safe in her tower and her ignorance of the future.  Never in a dozen Ages could she have imagined this life, these people.

Her hands warmed, she turns away from the fire and kneels in the snow to begin pitching her tent.

“I take it neither of you will partake in the festivities?” she asks, loud enough for both Sten and Morrigan to hear.  They’d made their intent clear with earlier comments, but it can’t hurt to check.

“Join in a celebration of the Maker?  Stand outside and sing Chantry hymns with people who would as soon see me branded and Tranquil?  It doesn’t appeal.”  Morrigan’s tone is acerbic, and Daine grimaces as she hammers a post into the ground.

“It might be an… interesting thing to observe, but I doubt I would be welcome,” Sten says.  There’s no hurt in his deep voice, but Daine glances up at him anyway to see him looking out into the distance, away from Redcliffe and her.

“I could bring you back cookies, if they have them,” she offers.  He grunts, which from Sten can mean many things, but this one sounds like a ‘thank you’.

“Morrigan, is there anything you’d like?”  Daine tugs on a rope, tightening the canvas of her tent.

“A respite from fools,” Morrigan replies.  “Which, thanks to their absence, has already been granted me.”

The tent finished, Daine stands up straight and glances over at the witch, shaking her head.

“Alright then.  Keep an eye on Tahoi for me, please.”

“We shall,” Sten promises.  Daine tugs her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders and follows her other companions’ path out of the woods.

* * *

 She stops on the bluff above Redcliffe, the waterfall roaring to her left and the sounds of laughter and singing faintly audible from below.  She watches the bobbing heads in the village square for a moment, then settles down to sit on a rock – just for a minute, just until she spots Leliana or her other friends.  Then she’ll go down that path.

But she sees them – Wynne’s white head first, spinning as she dances with a villager in the Chantry courtyard.  They’d fought darkspawn and skeletons there, months ago, but now the cobbles are covered in white, not rust-red.  She sees Wynne, and then Zevran leaning over a farmer’s stall counter in his standard flirting pose, and then Alistair and Leliana in front of some sort of game, and she doesn’t go down.  The sun sinks behind her and Daine stays on her rock in the gathering darkness, calling a bubble of flame to hover in between her palms for warmth, watching but not moving.

A year ago, Wintersend had passed her by quietly in Kinloch Hold.   In the Circle there was no festival, but there were Chantry services for those so inclined, and fresh fruit imported from the north on the dining hall tables, and perhaps a small gift from one friend or another.  She’d never known anything else, and she’d been content to simply carry on in her studies in the peace and quiet of a winter night.  Now, there would not be peace in Kinloch for a long time – or it would be the peace of the dead, of empty halls and beds gathering dust.

Redcliffe lives, thanks to her.  Daine knows this, and she should be grateful, but all that she feels is… something biting, hot and curdling in her stomach.  It’s acid on the back of her tongue, burning like the blood of the Joining Chalice: anger.  She watches Redcliffe’s people dance and laugh and sing to their god, and she feels _anger_ .  How can they carry on like this, with the Blight on their very doorstep?  How can they live like this, when everything _she_ knows is gone?  When her life has been signed away for their sake?

 _Wynne would tell me that life isn’t fair,_ she thinks, and in that moment she is angry with Wynne too.  The woman may be wise, but she doesn’t stand in Daine’s shoes.  No one does, except Alistair, and even he had more of a choice.  Hers was no choice at all: her mind or her future, taken by Greagoir’s Templars or Duncan’s oath.  There was no path that would have left her whole.

She doesn’t cry.  She hasn’t cried since just after Kinloch.  Nothing else felt _worthy_ of tears after that.  Still, Daine’s shoulders shake a little, as if with sobs, and her throat hurts when she swallows.  She looks down at her hands, cast in warm light by her ball of fire.  They are terribly fragile things to have held the fate of hundreds, but they have done so.  Orzammar shouldn’t have been her fight, but it was.  The Circle shouldn’t have been left to her, but it was.  Arl Eamon’s life shouldn’t have been her responsibility, but it was.

There are footsteps to her left, crunching in the snow, and Daine brings her hands together quickly to extinguish the fire she holds.  She fears little now, not after all she has fought, but the idea of being seen like this by _anyone_ makes her feel sick.

The footsteps grow closer and finally stop, just behind her left shoulder.  She has to look, or risk attack.  But when she twists to look behind her, she sees Leliana.  There’s a sheepish smile on the bard’s face and a paper cone in her hands, and when her eyes meet Daine’s she approaches and takes a seat on the rock at Daine’s side.

She’s warm enough that Daine can feel it, radiating through the sliver of space between their bodies, and the tension in Daine’s shoulders unwinds just a bit.

“I was worried,” Leliana says quietly.  She holds out the paper cone.  “Chestnut?”

Daine hesitates, but picks one up gingerly.  It’s warm, but not so hot that it burns her tongue when she pops it into her mouth, and chewing it gives her an excuse not to talk.  She has no excuse not to look at Leliana, but that doesn’t stop her.

“At first I thought you might have just stayed at camp, but then I saw a light up here.”  Leliana moves the cone of chestnuts to her other hand, reaching out to rest the nearer one on Daine’s knee.  “Are you alright?”

She could lie.  She could laugh and brush it off and say she was just tired from the road, but Daine has spent the evening cataloguing all the ways in which she is _not_ alright.  In answer, she heaves a deep sigh and slumps sideways, resting her head on Leliana’s shoulder and soaking up her body heat.  The shoulder moves a little as Leliana works her arm backwards to wrap it around Daine’s shoulder, holding her close.  They sit in silence, Daine’s unsteady hitching breath the loudest sound in the darkness.

“I love you, you know,” Leliana murmurs after a time.  “That might not always be enough, but I love you, and it’s more true every time I say it.”

Daine sighs again, the exhale moving in a ripple down her body, and swallows before speaking.

“Nothing will ever be the same,” she says.  It comes out in a raspy whisper, as if her throat is sore from weeping.  “I can’t… go back to being at peace.  They took that from me, and now I’m supposed to solve the world’s problems alone because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Leliana tilts her head to rest it on Daine’s, pulling her in a little tighter at the same time.

“I know,” she says.  “But my love, sometimes we must make our own peace.”  She pauses, and Daine can feel her jaw working as she decide what to say.

“Sometimes… making your own future is the best way to free yourself of the past.”  She squeezes Daine’s shoulder.  “I didn’t walk away from Marjolaine in Denerim, you know.  I was walking towards you.”

Wetness threatens at the corners of Daine’s eyes, and she blinks rapidly.

“Leliana, I-“  Her voice cuts off, the lump in her throat too painful to speak around.

“You’re not alone, Daine,” Leliana says.  The words are low and certain, spoken with the same conviction Daine has heard when she speaks of the Maker.  “You have allies, and friends who care for you – even Morrigan.  You have _me_.  Whatever stands before us, we will face them together.”

Silent tears trail down Daine’s cheeks despite her best efforts to stop them.  It’s selfish to cry for herself but here, warm under Leliana’s arm, she does.  They fall onto her legs and evaporate, leaving cool patches on the skin under her breeches.  Leliana says nothing of it, but when the tears slow she offers the cone of chestnuts again.  They’re cool now, but Daine takes three.  As she pops them into her mouth, she sits up straight again.

“Daine.”  She turns toward Leliana, who brushes her thumbs over the tear tracks on Daine’s cheeks.  Then, cupping her face in both hands, the bard presses a kiss to her forehead.  The tenderness of it almost starts the flow of tears anew.

“ _Ensemble_ ,” she whispers in Orlesian, her warm breath tickling Daine’s face.  It smells of chestnuts and a little of cinnamon.

Daine nods.  “Together,” she whispers back, and reaches out to take Leliana’s hand, lacing their fingers together.  “I… told Sten I would bring him cookies,” she says slowly.  “Did you find any down there?”

Leliana smiles, warmer than any campfire, and Daine smiles weakly back.  “As a matter of fact, I did,” she says.  “Shall we?”

And slowly, walking so close their shoulders brush, they make their way down to the village.


	2. 9:43

It is Leliana’s last Wintersend with the Inquisition.  She has delayed travelling to Val Royeaux for months now, pleading important business which cannot be trusted to anyone else.  The clerics grow strident, and she in turn becomes firm:  she will be their Divine, but on her terms.  They cannot claim all of her, not yet, and she would spend this last holiday with friends instead of Chantry bureaucrats.

Besides, this is the first Wintersend the Inquisition has had that’s truly felt like a celebration.  For the last two years they were at war, and holidays would have been a waste of resources and a distraction.  Now, though, there is peace:  Corypheus is defeated, the Venatori pushed back and facing resistance in the Magisterium itself, Orlais secure and cordial with the Inquisition.  Even the mages are happy for once – with the exception of Enchanter Vivienne, though there is little doubt in Leliana’s mind that she will find her way to power again.

The people who fill Skyhold’s throne room are happier than she’s ever seen them – even more than the night after Corypheus’s defeat.  They’ve had a chance to rest, for once, and to begin to imagine a future, and tonight they drink and feast and laugh almost as if the war never hung over their heads.

Josephine, of course, is in her element.  She frets over the food and the décor, but Leliana knows a pleased fret from Josie when she sees it, and her friend is content for all her nit-picking.  She stands to the Inquisitor’s left as they greet guests.  Cassandra Pentaghast is to Lavellan’s right, and keeps moving her hands to her right hip as if to rest them on a sword hilt that isn’t there.  An unexpected trio, those three, but they seem to have made it work.  Josie is certainly happy with the arrangement, and if Josie is happy then that settles it.

Leliana leans back against the wall, taking a small sip from her glass of wine.  Her gaze roams across the room, filled with nobles and commoners, mages and warriors.  The Inquisition has brought them all together, without regard for race or creed.  She would not have believed it possible after the Conclave, when she was raw and angry with Justinia’s death and Kepi Lavellan was in chains, but then she’s been proven wrong frequently in the last two years.

And really, she shouldn’t be surprised.  Kepi is not the first elven mage she’s known to build such a coalition.

As the inflow of guests slows to a trickle, the Inquisitor and her partners begin to move around the room and Leliana pushes herself away from the wall.  The room is loud, filled with voices and happy laughter, but she feels like she’s in a muffled bubble.  Her mind isn’t in the moment – it wanders between the coming year and the waiting Sunburst Throne and the past long gone.  She turns away from the throne room, ducking into a side stairwell and climbing to the balcony that runs around the end of the hall.  There she stands, leaning on the bannister and drinking slowly, watching the currents of people below her eddy and flow.  Varric has gathered an audience in his customary sitting area in front of the fire, and she can hear him telling one of his outrageous stories.  Vivienne holds court at the other end of the hall, nearer the throne; the Iron Bull and his Chargers have claimed one of the long tables, though they welcome newcomers to join them.  There is a camaraderie that suffuses the room, and linking it all is the Inquisitor, the crowd parting around her as she moves.  Leliana imagines that if she could close her eyes and see the connections between the people below, the Inquisitor would join them all like a delicate golden chain strung with gemstones.

The great doors creak as they open inwards and cold air wafts into the room, rising even to Leliana’s level.  She shivers a little and stands up straight, but doesn’t spare a glance for the late arrival.  The people who matter the most to her are already here.  She looks fondly down at Josie, leaning in to whisper to the Inquisitor and Cassandra – and only then realizes that the hall has succumbed to a spreading silence, radiating outwards from the doors as they slowly close behind the newcomer.

No – radiating outwards from the figure standing in front of those doors.

Leliana’s hand rises to her chest unconsciously, pressing against her surcoat.  Under the fabric lies a bronze amulet with Andraste’s holy flame engraved on it.  Under that is her heart, beating hard as she stares at the diminutive cloaked stranger.

The stranger’s cloak is held closed with a blue and silver gryphon brooch.

Alistair is gone, Orlais’ remaining Wardens rebuilding their Order far away.  It could be an emissary from them, bearing some terrible news to interrupt Wintersend celebrations in progress, but it could be –

Leliana sets her wineglass on the railing post with a shaking hand, pausing to steady it as it threatens to tip, and hurries back down the stairs.  She bursts out the door at the bottom and into the middle of the hall.  The people give way before her as if pulled apart by a puppeteer’s strings, and there is nothing between her and the woman in front of the door.

The Warden pulls back her hood, baring her face to the light, and Leliana draws in a gasp so deep it almost hurts.  She has seen that face in her dreams and sometimes in her nightmares, waking up with a sob caught in her throat either way.  She has stared into those black eyes, has pressed her nose to that jawline, has kissed those pointed ears, those cheekbones, that full lower lip.

“Hello, Leliana,” Daine Surana says, and then they are both moving, closing the gap between them faster than a thought and colliding in an hard, tight embrace.  Daine’s hair is shorter now, not even brushing her shoulders, and it tickles Leliana’s nose as she buries her face in Daine’s shoulder.  She is breathing in gasps that feel like they could turn to laughter or sobbing at any moment, and Daine is  _ here _ .  She is  _ here _ and real and warm and smelling of campfire smoke and Andraste’s Grace.  The fact of her existence drives everything else from Leliana’s mind – Val Royaux, the Inquisitor, the hundreds of people watching – she cannot find it within her to care.

Daine pushes gently against her chest and Leliana lets her step back, though she keeps her hands on the shorter woman’s shoulders.  Her love gazes up at her, smiling, and then reaches out to curl a hand around the back of her neck.  She pulls Leliana down until their foreheads touch and their breaths mingle.

“Happy Wintersend, dearest,” she murmurs, and kisses her.

There is a  _ fire _ in Leliana and her fingers tense on Daine’s shoulders, as if without that grip she might rise up and float away.  It is as giddy as their first kiss, years ago, filled with tenderness and tentative hope, but the way Daine presses herself into it is firm and confident.  It is a promise in a kiss, and in the way her thumb runs up and down Leliana’s neck even as her lips part.  When they separate, it is a promise made aloud before witnesses.

“I swear, I will never leave you again,” Daine declares, loud enough for all to hear.

There is silence in the space after her words, and then Josie gasps.  Leliana can hear her whispering to her partners again, but can’t imagine why.  In that moment, her heart thrumming with love and relief, she is not thinking like a spymaster.  Cassandra, however, voices what Leliana had not realized.

“Then – that  means –“

And then Leliana knows.  She knows, and it is as if all the weight she carries has been lifted from her shoulders:  all the guilt, shame, self-doubt, and responsibility gone, and what remains is simply herself, pure and unburdened and free.

“Yes,” Daine says in response to Cassandra.  She looks directly at the Seeker, and Cassandra actually flushes a little.  “I found the cure.”  She turns back to Leliana and takes the spymaster’s hands in her own, holding them tightly.

“I will stay by your side, my love,” she says softly, eyes shining.  “To face whatever comes,  _ ensemble _ .”

“Together,” Leliana echoes, struggling to keep her voice from breaking.  “Until we are both old and grey.”

 


End file.
